


Eleven Weeks.

by worth_the_risk



Series: Counting. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, God Molstrade is an ugly pairing name okay, Golly, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Molstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worth_the_risk/pseuds/worth_the_risk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A more poetic man would've compared his emotions to the sharp echoes, but Greg Lestrade wasn't known for being poetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Weeks.

She dropped her purse on the counter and made her way over to his favourite armchair, falling into it and pulling her knees up to support her chin. He followed behind, wanting to let her be the first one home and to allow her to choose her defenses before he walked in.  


"Moll? I'll put that tea on for you, if you'd like."  


She gave a small nod and a tiny smile before her face was devoid of emotion again. That's more than she'd given him in three days, and it was a relief. The only face she'd been smiling for was Sherlock's, and the irony in that was enough to quirk his lips for the seemingly first time in the last eighty or so hours. He grabbed her tarnished kettle and filled it in the sink, allowing himself to drift into the hollow sound of the water collecting and splashing against metal. A more poetic man would've compared his emotions to the sharp echoes, but Greg Lestrade wasn't known for being poetic.  


"Greg?"  


He turned his head, still holding the kettle under the tap. "Yes?"  


"I'm sorry." Her lower lip trembled and her eyes flooded as she looked across the room at him, and she quickly bit her lower lip to still it. The kettle clanged around in the sink as he dropped it; his ears began to protest and were duly ignored as he rounded the island and knelt before her, gathering her as far into his arms as her posture and his position would allow.  


"You don't need to apologise, love." He splayed his hand across the back of her head and distantly noted that her hair needed washed. "I promise you, I'm not mad now and I never will be. It's nothing you did wrong, it's nothing I did wrong; sometimes it just _happens_."  


"I'm bad at everything, I can never do anything right." Her voice wasn't breaking, just quiet and resigned, and that sliced deeper than the sobbing he'd been discerning words through before.  


"We both know that's a lie." Endless things that she's excellent at buzzed around his mind but none of them would land on his tongue.  


"Alright, then I'm bad at the _important_ things. The things that _count_." Her voice finally cracked on the last word, and he pulled back to look at her for a moment before brushing his lips softly over her cheeks and forehead, the only sound in the apartment the still-running water hitting the odd angles of the kettle and the sink.  
  
  
\----  
  
  
After she had some tea in her, she was much more malleable. He managed to get her wrapped around him on the couch for long enough to count three small smiles, then tilted her chin up to address her.  


"You need to take a bath, love. I know how you are about keeping your hair clean."  


She nodded and untangled herself from him, sluggishly walking into her bathroom and stoppering the drain before turning the water on. She stretched weakly, bracing herself on the side of the basin and squeezing the off-white surface until her knuckles matched it. _Eleven weeks._  


A quiet sob reached his ears and he stood and half-jogged across the room, knocked on the doorframe as he rounded the corner and fell to his knees, locking his arms around her waist and kissing her crown as she knelt against the bathtub, crying again. Leaning forward, he pulled her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek as she choked on her failure.  


"Calm down, love, you've got to calm down or you're going to make yourself sick."  


"Eleven weeks, Greg. It was eleven weeks."  


"I know, I was counting just as enthusiastically as you were." She groaned through another sob as he finished his sentence, turning and flinging her arms around his neck.  


"I- I'm so _sorry_ , I-"  


" _Stop apologizing_. I'm not mad at you. I'm a touch angry with the world, but I am fine as far as you're concerned, better than fine, and I'm glad that you're fine, and you're home. I'm here. Jane's got the girls, I can and will stay here for as long as you need me." Nodding and sniffling, she started to pluck at the buttons on her cardigan. He took her hands and kissed her knuckles before unbuttoning the maroon wool for her, helping her out of it, and asking gentle permission with his eyes to assist her in the removal of the rest of her clothes. She nodded vaguely and helped as much as she was allowed, finally steadying herself on his arm and easing her way into the now-full, steaming tub. She sunk in until the slowing breaths from her nose made flickering ripples in the surface of the water, and hummed appreciatively.  


Picking up her discarded laundry, he turned to her and quietly said, "I'll be right back, alright?" She nodded and let her eyes slide shut. The laundry he had bundled in his arms smelled of hospital and salt water, and that was unacceptable. He grabbed her small travel bag that he'd packed three days previously from the tile by the door and brought it with him, emptying the other stinking-of-sterility washables into her washing machine. As he added just a bit more soap than usual, he massaged his palm against his cheek and sighed heavily, shaking his head and screwing the cap back on the detergent with the other hand. "Eleven weeks."

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I do this to characters I adore? "I'm sorry," she offers into the chasm she left in her own chest as she wrote this. Probably going to expand on this storyline. No schedule to it, it'll probably just happen.


End file.
